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Toward Water And Home

They say the history of a tree is learned by counting its rings, though to see the story you must cut it down. I say leave the ax at home. The tree remembers more than that. No need to turn your hand to violence. Walk up and touch the rough body listen to the rhythm of the upward-flowing xylem drum. The wind will shift and change the pitch of leaves. Now it has a voice.

The tree will tell you stories of animals which men do not deserve to hear. The black bear passes sometimes late, sighs heavily beside the tree, moves on downhill through blackberry and oak toward water. The old doe sleeps beside the trunk and wakes with the sun on her face. She rises, moving on. And the tree tells the story of today,

how you have been in pain without remedy or very much hope. But you came. You rose and stood up to the bright and thoughtless light of spring and you came to hear. Now you are moving on, with everything, as everything is looking for a place to be. And the old tree leans happily into April again. It leans a little more each year, toward home.